


Loving John Winchester

by mrs_squirrel_chester



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Angst, F/M, Female Reader angst, Female Reader fluff, Fluff, Implied Smut, John Winchester Angst, John Winchester fluff, implied nsfw
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-03-18
Updated: 2016-03-18
Packaged: 2018-05-27 11:46:49
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,278
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6283276
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/mrs_squirrel_chester/pseuds/mrs_squirrel_chester
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>What would loving John Winchester be like?</p>
            </blockquote>





	Loving John Winchester

Love.

From the time you were a child, you were told love was everything; that it was this giant, magnificent, amazing, illustrious, splendored thing. It could cure any ailment, fix any problem. You were told that it was the greatest thing in the world and all you needed was love. But what they failed to mention was how much loving someone could hurt. What they failed to mention was what happened after the love was gone.

Falling in love with John Winchester was almost too easy. He was gruff, hard-headed, stubborn, rough around the edges, demanding; but damn it, he was yours.

From the moment you laid eyes on the hunter, you were gone. He walked into the room full of swagger, leather jacket barely containing wide shoulders, charcoal hair long enough that it curled over his ears and at the collar.

He sat next to you at the bar, ordered a whiskey, _“Double, and one for the lady,” and winked a chocolate eye._

That was it. You were gone. Not that he made it easy.

Just like everyone else, John had baggage; baggage he thought you didn’t deserve to have thrust upon you. He thought he was too old, not worthy enough, that he’d hurt you, that _“if anyone… anything found out about you, they’d do to you what they did to Mary.”_

But nothing he said changed your mind. You loved everything about him. From the way he fired a pistol with those same hands that held you close to the way he looked with nothing but a low slung towel ‘round his hips, baring his scars and flaws for you, and only you, to see and admire. From the way his hair curled when it got too long to the way he decapitated a vampire. From the way he drank his whiskey without so much as a grimace to the way he fucked you into the mattress until you couldn’t breathe.

From one extreme to the other, and everything in between.

He said he was old and out of shape. The man had once thrown you over his shoulder and ran out of a building while being chased by a poltergeist; all without losing his breath. He was anything but out shape. Did he have a defined six-pack? No. But he was rock solid and knew how to use every muscle, every inch of his rugged frame to his advantage. 

He said he wasn’t good enough, that he wasn’t worthy of your love. This man killed monsters and saved lives for a fucking living. He wasn’t in it for the money, for the recognition, for the fame and glory. He did it to make the world a better, safer place; because he truly cared. If that wasn’t worthy of your love, you didn’t know what was. 

He said all of these things to try and push you away, to try and save you from this terrible life the pair of you led. But you weren’t having it. You were just as scarred, just as traumatized, just as damaged as he was.

You were like a jigsaw puzzle, the curvy weird pieces that, when put together, made perfect sense. You finally understood what all those silly love songs and poems were about.

That should have been a red flag the size of fucking Texas. 

* * *

_“Hey, babe. How ya feelin’?” he asked after sitting down._

_You had stayed behind, riddled with the flu. There was no way you could hunt when you could barely walk into the bathroom without losing your breath. “Tired. How’d it go?”_

_“Typical salt and burn.” You could tell by the way he breathed into the phone that he wasn’t telling the whole truth._

_“What aren’t you telling me, John?”_

_He sighed and rubbed a hand over his face, “Ghost got a little too close for comfort.”_

_“How close is too close?” Getting hurt was one of the perks to the job. There were always stitches to be given, bullets to be removed, shoulders to pop back into place, and bruises to prove your worth._

_“Got thrown through a wall. I’m fine, Y/N. Just… sore.”_

_You rolled to your back and closed your eyes, “You’re not as young as you used to be, old man.”_

_“Shut up,” laughter chased his words, immediately lightening the mood._

_When a comfortable silence fell, you yawned softly, “I miss you.”_

_“I miss you too, baby girl,” his already gruff voice dropped._

_It didn’t matter that you felt like death warmed over, your stomach flipped lazily whenever he called you that. “How much?”_

_John chuckled, blowing hot breath into the speaker, “You have no idea.”_

_“Tell me.”_

_“Mmmm, baby girl. Don’t think I don’t want to.”_

_Pouting, you sniffled loudly, “You’re tired.”_

_It was his turn to yawn, “So tired.”_

_“When will you tell me?”_

_You could damn near hear him bite his bottom lip, “Wait for me to come home.”_

But John never came home. 

* * *

Love.

Love has the ability to rip the ground out from under you when you least expect it. It can squash you like a bug or make you so heavy with hurt that you never want to get out of bed again. It could suck the happiness out of everything you used to enjoy doing. It could turn the world into a dark, dreary, depressing place, and you hated it. 

You hated what love had turned you into; this weeping, weak, shadow of the person you used to be. You hated that you were vulnerable enough to let it blind you, that you let it lead you into territory you should never had dared to go, that you threw all caution to the wind because it felt so fucking good. 

But most of all, you hated it because it made you feel alive.

It was with heat waves licking at your tear stained cheeks and fire crumbling John’s body to ash that you pulled out a small picture. Nothing much, just one of the last photos of the two of you. It had been chilly that day so you pressed into his side and wrapped your arms around his waist, tucking your cold fingers into the top of his jeans, his hiss at the contact still audible in your ear.

_“Take the damn picture already. I’m fuckin’ freezing my ass off.”_

_With a wicked grin, he grabbed your ass, “Don’t worry, baby doll, I’ll warm you up.”_

You could still feel the sweet burn of his stubble against your lips and chin when you kissed his cheek. That was when he snapped the picture. 

It fit into the locket perfectly. You secured it around your neck and tucked it into your shirt. John was right next to your heart, exactly where he should be; where the ghost of him took up residence and refused to leave.

* * *

Standing in the middle of the motel room where he stayed that night, you closed your eyes and cleared your mind.

“Talk to me, Johnny. Just… just one more time.” Not that you could ever forget the sound of his voice. The way it was thick with sleep first thing in the morning, how it made his chest and back vibrate. How it shattered when he talked about Mary and the boys. How it strained when he fucked you, gritting out your name like a curse as he came. How soft it was when he would whisper into your ear, into the crook of your neck and against your lips that he loved you.

It was when you gave up and blew out a breath that you heard it.

_“Wait for me to come home.”_


End file.
